


A Short History of Eric Bittle and Closets

by jacksbits (fragilehuge)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bullying, Coming Out, Fluff, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6471157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilehuge/pseuds/jacksbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When he’s a child, Eric’s favorite place in the world is inside the closet. He’s too young to understand the irony.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Short History of Eric Bittle and Closets

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Chloe](http://ziimbits.tumblr.com) for the beta! Huge thanks to [querulousgawks](http://querulousgawks.tumblr.com) for the awesome prompt that began this whole fic. (Also, thank you [JJeh](http://jjeh--writes.tumblr.com/) for your great prompts--sorry I only worked in one line in response!)
> 
> Warning for bullying and some internalized homophobia. And regular homophobia. :/ (It's not the focus of the fic and it gets better, though.)

01.

When he’s a child, Eric’s favorite place in the world is inside the closet. He’s too young to understand the irony.

Mama and Coach share a big walk-in, and sometimes, when Eric wants to be alone, he crawls inside and sits against the wall beneath his mother’s dresses. It's dark and quiet and safe in there. He always scoots to the back corner, sits with his head tipped back so that it rests against the wall. It feels like he can stay completely still for hours, tucked into that small space. He’s hardly a person anymore, just a statue, a doll. There’s something dream-like about being in the dark, secreted away in an entirely different world.

It’s where he goes after Mama finds him playing in the front yard and screams at him for getting too close to the street. When she stops to take a breath, Eric manages to stammer out an apology. He’s barely six, and he isn’t exactly sure what he did wrong—only that it was very, _very_ wrong, whatever it was. He doesn’t want to cry. The moment he thinks he’s allowed to, he turns around and runs back into the house. Eric makes a beeline for the closet without thinking about it, ends up pressed against the wall in the blackness, sniffling wetly. The closet smells like Mama but isn’t angry at all. Eric hugs his knees to his chest.

It feels like a long time passes, but eventually the door creaks open. Light spills in from his parents’ bedroom in a long, bright rectangle. Mama says, “Dicky?” and drops down to her knees, crawling forward to press her clothes aside. She wraps her arms around him, and then Eric can’t stop himself from crying any longer.

“I’m sorry,” his mother says into his hair. “I’m sorry baby, your mama was just scared, it’s okay. I’m sorry I yelled.”

It starts a pattern, though. When things are too much, Eric seeks out that quiet, dark space.

It’s where he goes after he burns the first pie he ever makes completely by himself. It’s where he goes after Coach yells at him during peewee football practice. Where he goes when he decides he wants to start figure skating and Coach just snorts without looking up from the paper, saying, “Sure, we’ll talk about it later.” It’s somewhere to go when he loses _another_ library book and his mother is just as mad as she is disappointed. It’s somewhere to go when Eric leaves his favorite stuffed animal at the park and Coach is gone for an hour looking for it, but comes back empty-handed anyway. It’s somewhere to go when he twists his ankle figure skating and it _hurts_ and he’s afraid if he tells anyone they’ll make him stop.

It’s where Eric goes when he gets overwhelmed at Thanksgiving, with what feels like a hundred relatives all looking at him and talking to him at once, and someone makes a joke about whether or not his friend Katie is his “ _little girlfriend_.” The way Eric’s gut twists doesn’t make any sense because it’s just a joke, but he slips away and into the closet the first chance he gets anyway. He just needs a moment alone.

Eric never feels lonely, though, when he’s curled up in there. He’s surrounded by the cool brush of fabric and the smell of his mother’s perfume. The trailing hems of Mama’s skirts skimming his shoulders are as soft as an embrace.

When Eric is old enough to realize the irony of his old favorite hiding spot, it still doesn’t seem so bad. He remembers being six and wanting somewhere safe to hide. The closet isn’t such a bad place to be.

 

 

 

02.

 _It could be worse_ , Eric thinks to himself. _They could have stuffed me in a locker._

As it is, there’s enough space in the utility closet to sit down and stretch his legs out. That’s something, at least. They also pushed Eric into the closet with his backpack on, and he has his homework and a granola bar in there, and that’s something to do and almost like dinner all at once. Let it be known that Eric Bittle has always appreciated small mercies.

Besides, it helps to focus on the positive. There’s a lot of negative that Eric is trying not to think about. Like, for instance, the fact that no one is coming for him.

When Jackson, Parker, and Thomas pushed him into the janitor’s closet after the game, Eric thought that maybe they’d let him out after a little while. He was pleading with them through the door, even though he knew that only made it funnier. Poor little stupid Eric, begging for help… but what else was he supposed to do? He figured they’d let him out once they’d had their fun. Besides, most of the team was still in the locker room, and they could all hear him, too. Maybe it was stupid, but Eric expected _someone_ to take pity on him and let him out. You know, eventually.

Jackson, Parker, and Thomas stayed out there snickering for a while, but eventually the noises stopped. The rest of the team had left by then, but Eric kept pounding on the door anyway, asking to be let out. Just in case.

He knew it was pointless. They'd gotten bored and left, and no one was around to hear him. Eventually he stopped pounding on the door, sunk down to his knees. His hands hurt. He didn't have the energy to keep pretending someone was going to save him.

By now, Eric knows no one is coming back for him. He wants to save the granola bar until he can’t stand it anymore, but after an hour of sitting around, he’s really bored and really hungry. It would be stupid to eat it so early. Eric has no idea how long he’ll be stuck in here. It’s just, eating the granola bar would give him something good to think about for a while. Eric thinks he needs that. It’s getting hard not to think about the bad things.

For one thing, Eric’s phone is dead. His parents are probably worried sick. Coach is going to kill him if his mother doesn’t do it first. And the entire football team thinks he’s a stupid loser.

His parents have to realize that something’s wrong by now, though. Eric usually gets a ride home with Jackson and his mom after games that they can't come to. When he didn’t show up at home, his mom would have called his cell phone. When she realized his phone was dead, she probably would have called Jackson’s mom. Then maybe Jackson would have told them what happened and Mama would be on her way to pick him up.

But maybe that isn’t what really happened. Maybe Jackson just lied.

Eric is going to get into _so much trouble_ for letting his phone die.

But there isn’t anything he can do about that now, so he crosses his legs, scooching up as close as he can to the door so that he can do his math homework by the little line of light that gets in underneath. It takes a long time to do it like that—Eric has to keep moving the paper so he can read the whole problem—but he has time. There isn’t anything else to do but homework.

After a couple of hours, Eric can’t stand it anymore and he eats the granola bar. He finishes the rest of his homework, including some reading for Lit that takes about four times as long to do as usual. Afterward, his eyes ache from trying to read for so long in the low light.

Then Eric cries for a while, because no one is around to hear him. It’s clear his parents aren’t coming to get him. Everyone on the team thinks he’s weird, and no one came to let him out even though they all knew he was in here, and he can’t stop hearing Parker’s voice saying, “Have fun in the closet, faggot,” which isn’t even fair, because Eric isn’t like that—he _isn’t_ —and they only say that because of the figure skating, anyway, which is stupid. Doing figure skating doesn’t make Eric _gay_. His coach Katya is _married_ to an ex-figure skater. He's not gay, obviously. And neither is Eric, but they still hate him. Eric is trying so hard to be normal and they hate him anyway.

He wipes the back of his hand over his snotty nose. He hates this place. He wants to quit the football team, but Coach won’t let him. _Just give it a try,_ _son. It’s good for you._ Like Eric’s not _trying._ It doesn’t matter how much he tries. Coach just won’t _listen._

Eric falls asleep on his side on the floor, hugging his backpack to his chest. The floor is cold and uncomfortable, but there’s nothing for him to do but sleep.

-

Eric wakes to a bright light and someone saying, “ _Dios mío! Estás bien_?”

“What?” Eric asks, blinking. There’s a man in a grey jumpsuit standing in the doorway to the utility closet. Eric sort of recognizes him as one of the janitors. The man is holding a big ring of keys in one hand and he looks very, very concerned.

Eric starts to sit up, but then suddenly the man is kneeling next to him, putting a hand on Eric’s shoulder. Eric does the stupidest possible thing and starts to cry.

The man hugs Eric to his chest, says, “Oh, _hijo_ , it’s okay, you are okay.”

After a while, Eric manages to speak. “Sorry. I’m Eric. Can I use your cell phone?”

“Yes, of course,” the man says, starting to dig through his pockets. “My name is Luis.” He presents Eric with his phone a moment later.

Eric flips it open. The screen says it’s 5:30 in the morning. God, Mama is going to be so mad at him. He dials her number with shaky fingers, anyway. He doesn’t know what else to do. When it goes to voicemail, he dials again. She’s probably asleep. She is going to be _so mad._

Luis is still watching Eric, kneeling next to him. He looks so worried.

Finally, Eric’s mother answers the phone. “What? Hello? Do you know wha—”

“Mama?” Eric asks. His voice quavers in a completely embarrassing way.

“Dicky? Baby, what’s wrong? Do you need me to come pick you up from Jackson’s?”

“Mama, I’m not at Jackson’s,” Eric says.

“What? I called him yesterday because your phone was dead, he said you were staying over—”

Eric takes a deep breath. “They locked me in a closet at school, Mama, after the game. I’m sorry I let my phone die, it’s my fault I couldn’t call you.”

Eric’s mother is quiet for what feels like a long time. He’s sure he’s about to get yelled at about the phone.

“Mama?” he asks, when he can’t take it anymore.

Instead of yelling at him, Mama wails, “ _Oh, my baby._ ”

It sounds like she’s burst into tears. There’s noise on the other end of the line—muffled movement, Mama saying something incomprehensible, then Coach’s low, soothing voice.

A moment later, into the phone, Coach says, “Son? Where are you? The school? We’re coming to get you now.”

“Yes, sir. I’m at the school,” Eric says. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

“We’ll be there soon, son,” Coach says, firmly. Eric thanks him and hangs up.

When Eric hands back the phone, Luis asks, “Your parents are coming?”

“Yeah,” Eric says. “Thank you. Sorry for—sorry.”

“It’s no problem,” Luis says. He drops a hand onto Eric’s shoulder. “The parking lot?”

Eric nods and Luis walks him outside, sits next to him on the curb until Eric’s parents arrive fifteen minutes later.

As soon as she gets out of the car, Mama envelopes Eric in a hug. She moves on to Luis suddenly a moment later, whispering something like _I don't know how we could ever—_ into his shoulder. He pats her on the back sympathetically. Afterward, Coach shakes Luis's hand.

-

They end up moving later that year, but for the rest of the semester, whenever Eric sees Luis around the school, the man gives him a warm, worried smile. It always makes Eric feel equal parts embarrassed and grateful.

Luis and Katya are the only people Eric actually misses once they move to Madison.

 

 

03.

Bitty spends two weeks at Jack’s place in Providence over winter break his junior year. They’re not spending Christmas together (“Next year, maybe our families can all get together, eh?”) and Bitty thinks he should probably be more disappointed about that, but he’s too thrilled about two uninterrupted weeks with Jack to really worry about it.

There’s no one sitting next to him on the train this time, so Bitty ends up spending most of the ride down thinking about Jack’s apartment. It’s a pretty engrossing train of thought, honestly. Bitty _loves_ Jack’s apartment.

It’s huge, for one thing, and gorgeous. The kitchen is especially wonderful: all open spaces and stainless steel, white cabinetry, a big window over the sink. Bitty cried the first time he saw it.

Even better, it’s now completely stocked with every baking implement that Bitty has ever wanted. During Bitty’s first visit, they went to Williams-Sonoma “just to get the essentials, Jack Zimmermann, how can you call yourself an adult and not own an _immersion blender?"_

Jack needed a stand mixer, though, mostly. That was the most important thing. Bitty ended up standing in the aisle, looking up in awe at the rainbow of mixers, a row of KitchenAids in every color he could think of.

“I like that blue one,” Bitty said. “It matches your eyes.”

He was just being silly; Bitty figured Jack would want a silver one, something nondescript and functional. Instead, Jack immediately squatted down to get a box with one of the blue KitchenAids inside.

When Bitty chirped him for buying something that matched his _own_ eyes, Jack just blushed and said, “I like the idea of you thinking about me when you’re using it.”

Bitty rolled his eyes and said, “That’s stupid, I’m always thinking about you,” and then felt his own cheeks flush when it came out soft and fond, too sincere. Jack didn’t seem to mind, though.

At any rate, Bitty does think about Jack’s eyes whenever he uses the mixer, so it all worked out how Jack wanted in the end.

It’s not just the kitchen that Bitty loves. The whole apartment is sunny and full of light, and Bitty feels less and less a guest each time he wakes up in Jack’s bed. Honestly, the apartment is the only place Bitty really feels really _comfortable_ with Jack. Like he can act any way he wants, can touch Jack whenever he wants, doesn’t have to hide a single thing he’s feeling.

It’s not like they’re hiding their relationship from everyone, but Jack’s not ready to come out professionally. They still have to be careful most of the time. Bitty gets it. It’s a big deal, and it’s Jack first season in the NHL. All the people that matter know, anyway. They’ve told all of their friends, obviously, and Jack has even told a couple of his teammates, the guys he’s closest to. Jack told his parents the day after graduation.

Bitty told his parents, too—finally—halfway through the semester. He got the point where he just wanted to be able to tell them where he actually was every other weekend. It was awful being on the phone with Mama, trying to tell her how he was doing without mentioning Jack too often or too fondly. Bitty hated having to downplay how important Jack was to him. It put a bad taste in his mouth, every time, so he finally just… went for it, got both of his parents on speakerphone and _said_ it.

In the moment, he relief more than anything else. Whatever happened, he'd finally done it. He wouldn't have to do it again.

Mama and Coach didn’t do anything terrible like yell or cry or anything, either. Bitty doesn’t know if he really expected something like that, but he’d been aware that it was a possibility. Mama just said she was happy if he was; Coach muttered about Jack being in the NHL, sounding disgruntled but also vaguely approving. Bitty still thinks neither of them were really that surprised.

But he and Jack, they still have to be careful. Even the Haus isn’t completely safe. The younger guys on the team don’t know Jack at all, really. It’s too risky to tell them something so big, when there are so many tabloids who’d pay good money to break a story about Jack dating a man.

At Jack’s place, though, none of that matters. It’s one of the reasons Bitty gets in the habit of going down to Providence so often that semester. It can be difficult for Jack to get away for a whole weekend—he has workouts with his trainer on Saturday mornings, and sometimes there are Falconers-related events in the evenings—so Bitty is usually the one to make the trip.

Besides, Jack’s apartment is more private than Bitty’s room at the Haus. That’s definitely a big incentive. Bitty hadn’t expected it, but Jack can be _loud._ It’s a little hot, watching Jack try to keep quiet when they fuck in Bitty’s room, but mostly it seems like kind of a shame. He _likes_ the noises Jack makes.

That’s a distracting enough thought to get Bitty through the rest of the train ride.

-

Jack picks him up at the train station. On the way to the apartment, Jack talks about the list he made of things he wants to do. Usually, when Bitty’s just up for a few days, they don’t have time to do much exploring. Bitty’s not in any position to chirp Jack for planning things out; he made a list of things he wants to bake while he’s here. It’s sweet, anyway, that Jack went through the effort. Bitty doesn’t really want to chirp him for it.

When they get to the apartment, Jack immediately grabs Bitty’s duffel from the trunk.

“Hey,” Bitty says. It’s only a token protest at this point. Jack always tries to carry his bags.

“I have to keep my strength up,” Jack says, monotone. “I am a professional athlete, you know.”

Bitty laughs as he follows Jack inside. It feels deliciously normal: he flops right onto the couch, and Jack goes back to his room to drop off the bag.

Then Jack’s voice comes from down the hall, a little too loud: “Hey, can you come in here?”

Bitty straightens up on the couch. He isn’t concerned, exactly, but Jack sounds nervous.

When he gets to the doorway, Jack’s just standing in the center of the bedroom, next to Bitty’s duffel.

“Uh,” Jack says. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “So, you’re going to be here for a while.”

“Yeah?” Bitty tries to wait without jumping to conclusions, but it’s… difficult. He digs the fingernails of one hand into his palm, tries to keep his face smooth. Sometimes it takes Jack a minute to get out what he’s trying to say. It’s just the way he is. Bitty knows this by now.

“I thought it would be good to… make space,” Jack says. “For you. In the closet.”

“Oh.” Bitty’s whole body loosens in an instant. He didn’t expect—but Jack wants—it’s overwhelming, how good it feels. Bitty's stomach is full of butterflies. “Really?”

“You don’t have to leave anything here after you go,” Jack says. “But you could, if you wanted.”

Bitty doesn’t fight his grin. He wants Jack to see it.

“That’s really…” Bitty laughs a little. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, nervous little smile flashing again. Bitty steps forward to pull him down, press a kiss to his cheek. Jack’s face is blush-warm.

Bitty unpacks his duffel bag into Jack’s big walk-in closet right away. Jack has pushed all of his things to one side. Despite how much Bitty over-packed, he didn’t bring enough clothes to fill up all the space.

It’s satisfying to see his clothes hanging alongside Jack’s when he’s done. It feels… real, suddenly. It’s a shared space; it’s Bitty’s closet, too. He almost wants to curl up in the corner, beneath Jack’s slacks, just to see how it feels.

That seems weird, though, so he doesn’t do it. Instead, he stands there, arms folded around himself, just looking.

Jack comes in to find him after a while. He drops his chin onto the top of Bitty’s head, wraps his arms around Bitty’s shoulders.

“Looks good,” Jack murmurs. “Wanna get dinner?”

Bitty reaches his hand up to tangle his fingers with Jack’s. Jack steps back, tugging Bitty along with him, presses a little kiss to his knuckles.

“Yeah,” Bitty says, letting Jack pull him out of the closet. “Sounds perfect.”

 

 

 

04.

Bitty’s late getting into Providence. He’s in a completely foul mood because of it, since being late means he doesn’t have time to see Jack before the game starts.

He’s already in kind of a bad mood before he’s late, because Nursey bailed on him at the last minute. Apparently he has some kind of art history test next Monday that he forgot about when they made the plans for this weekend. It seems like a stupid excuse—Bitty’s never spent an _entire_ weekend studying—but it’s not like he can force Nursey to come with him, either.

 _Lardo wouldn’t have bailed,_ Bitty can’t help thinking, a little grumpily. He misses Lardo. He misses Ransom and Holster and Shitty. He misses Jack all the goddamn time. Honestly, this year has kind of sucked. Being a senior has kind of sucked. Bitty’s just ready to fucking graduate.

Nursey lets Bitty borrow his car for the weekend, though—Bitty hadn’t bought train tickets, since they were supposed to drive up _together_ —which at least means the whole weekend isn’t ruined _._ But then Bitty leaves late. It’s worse because it’s completely his own fault, and it’s a stupid reason to be late, too. He just gets caught up editing a vlog. He could have done it any time, but—of course—he decided to start working on it 30 minutes before he had to leave. It's so fucking stupid. Bitty can’t believe himself sometimes.

At first, Bitty’s sure it’ll be fine anyway—he’s not _that_ late—but then traffic is terrible. He texts Jack, and then Jack’s all disappointed. The whole day’s been so shitty. When Bitty finally gets to his seat in the arena, he’s in an awful mood.

He has a great seat, of course (and an empty one next to him that’s going to stay empty, but whatever). Jack got the seats, and they’re close enough to the rink that Bitty knows he’ll be able to really see everything—be able to really see Jack—and that goes a little ways toward cheering Bitty up.

It isn’t the end of the world, being late. He and Jack will hang out afterward. They have all weekend together. Remembering that doesn’t quite fix things, but it helps.

What Bitty really wants to do is text Jack to complain about it, but Jack’s going to be busy doing pre-game stuff, so Bitty texts Chowder instead. Chowder just responds with _:(((((((((((_. That makes Bitty feel worse. He didn’t mean to make Chowder sad.

Everything else melts away, though, when the game starts. The Falconers have been playing well this season, but it feels like this is the game where everything really comes together—like there’s really something special there, like they’re a _team._ The Falconers win 5-3 and it ends up being one of the best games he’s ever seen Jack play. By the end of it, Bitty’s beaming.

After the game, Bitty slips into the locker room. He’s been coming to Jack’s home games for nearly two years at this point, so the people who work the back of the arena mostly recognize him. The guy at the door to the player’s area smiles when Bitty comes around the corner, says, “Oh, Zimmermann’s friend! Hey, Eric, what’s up?”

“Hey, Chuck,” Bitty says. “Great game, huh?”

“Sure was,” Chuck says. He holds the door open for Bitty to go through.

Jack isn’t in the locker room yet, probably doing some kind of press on the ice, so Bitty just leans against the wall, scrolling through Facebook on his phone. He can’t wait to see Jack: it’s been two weeks, and Jack’s going to be giddy the way he always is after a great game. It’s one of Bitty’s favorite ways to see him, all flushed and high on adrenaline, smiling as easily and as often as he ever does.

A couple of the guys call out a greeting, and Bitty waves. He doesn’t know the whole team, but he’s gone out with groups of them a couple of times by now. At this point, the whole team recognizes him as Jack’s friend. He doesn’t know how many of them suspect he’s Jack’s boyfriend—Jack’s only actually told two of them—but Bitty assumes probably at least a couple of the other guys have guessed. No one’s ever asked him about it, though, thankfully.

Once, Bitty asked Jack what he should say if someone did, but Jack had just looked worried and said, “They won’t, though, I don’t think.” Bitty ended up telling Jack that he’d try to deflect if someone asked, but he wasn’t sure if he could outright lie about it.

“I know this is hard. I’m sorry. I get it if you don’t want to lie,” Jack said. What Bitty heard was _but please don’t tell the truth._ That had been something like a year ago. The memory still hurts, a little.

It’s fine, though. It isn’t great, but it isn’t bad, either. Bitty doesn’t love being stuck in such a liminal space, but he’d rather be Jack’s friend than Jack’s nothing. It’s been working for two years, and they’ll make it keep working.

A moment later Jack bounds into the locker room. He keeps looking back over his shoulder.

“I’m not last, am I?” he asks, in that voice that Bitty recognizes as being a half-step away from a laugh.

“Ah, motherfucker!” one of the defensemen yells, coming in behind him. Bitty tunes him and everyone else out as he catches Jack’s eyes.

Jack walks across the locker room in two seconds flat, stops right in front of Bitty.

“Hi,” Bitty says. He’s very aware of the fact that he hasn’t kissed Jack in two weeks. He should have fucking left Samwell on time.

“Hello.” Jack is beaming. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Bitty presses his lips together to stop himself from smiling too much. They’re in public. It wouldn’t do.

“Go take your shower, Zimmermann,” Bitty says, but he looks up at Jack in a way that he knows sets off his eyelashes, makes them look golden against his cheekbones. “Then we can get out of here.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “I’ll be five minutes.”

Bitty nods and goes back to his phone to entertain himself; Jack is back in three minutes. He comes out of the showers shirtless, rubbing a towel through his hair, and Bitty tries not to look too obviously.

Then someone yells, “Aw, fuck, there’s press is out in the hallway!”

“How’d they get in here?” someone else yells back. Bitty is pretty sure everyone calls him Flappy. He doesn’t know the guy’s real name.

Jack looks annoyed. He pulls on a shirt as he comes over to where Bitty’s standing.

“Looks like you’ll be detained for a little longer,” Bitty says, but he isn’t in a bad mood anymore. He’s trying not to be. The game was good, and Jack is _here._ So what if he has to watch Jack talk to the cameras for a while? Jack hates doing it, but it can be fun to watch him. It’s cute when he gets all flustered. Jack’s gotten better at hiding it the past two years, but Bitty can always tell.

“I don’t wanna do press,” Jack says, frowning. He’s speaking quietly, so the others probably won’t hear. “I wanna spend time with you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bitty says. It’s a little easier to be in a good mood when Jack says stuff like that. “It won’t take that long.”

“They’ve gotta be stopped! Honestly! They’re vultures!” Flappy says, loudly enough that Bitty and Jack both look over. He’s talking to someone else who Bitty only kind of recognizes. Benson or something. Benny?

“I’m just saying, it’s not _my_ turn,” says Benny-or-whoever. “I did interviews for forty minutes last time.”

“I already talked to the press tonight,” Jack says, raising his voice. “If anyone’s exempt, it’s me.”

“All right, Zimmboni,” Flappy says. “You have a guest anyway, I wouldn’t make you do it.”

Jack nods. He looks over at the door, back at Flappy. “Okay. Cover me?”

“Duh,” Flappy says. Benny groans in frustration, but he follows Flappy toward the door anyway.

“You owe me,” Benny says, kind of menacingly, and then he and Flappy go out the door and start talking loudly.

“Ready?” Jack asks, which doesn’t make any sense until he grabs Bitty and pulls him out the door. Bitty tries to keep up as Jack tugs him down the hall in the other direction, away from Benny and Flappy and the reporters. They turn a corner, Jack yanks open a door, and then they’re pressed together in the dark.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Bitty says, half yelling, but he’s laughing, too.

“Hiding,” Jack says.

“Why?”

“I wanna…” Jack says, between breaths. “I wanna do this.”

His hands come up to cup Bitty’s cheeks, and then he’s pressing his mouth to Bitty’s chin, kissing upwards until he finds Bitty’s mouth. It’s dark, wherever they are, and Bitty can’t see a thing, can only feel Jack’s warm body pressed against his. Bitty wraps his arms around Jack’s neck and kisses him back.

He stumbles backward, bumping into a... shelf? But Jack just keeps pressing against him in the dark, ignoring the thump of something soft smacking onto the floor. Bitty almost trips over it a second later, though. He’s laughing as he pulls away from Jack.

“Hold on,” Bitty says. He slides his phone out of his pocket, turns on the flashlight. There’s a hockey glove on the floor. They’re in what looks to be a storage closet, bits of extra equipment lining the shelves. Bitty sweeps his phone around the room until he sees the light switch. He flips it on, smiles up at Jack.

“I just wanted to be able to see you,” Bitty says.

“Okay,” Jack says. “Good idea.” He plucks at the shoulder of Bitty’s jersey. “Nice Providence gear. Are you wearing my number?”

“Of course I am,” Bitty says, but he turns around so Jack can see the back of his shirt anyway.

“Good,” Jack says, crowding back into Bitty’s space. “I like that.”

They make out again for a while, until they hear noises in the hallway. Jack stiffens, looking down wide-eyed at Bitty.

“They’re looking for me,” Jack whispers. “Flappy’s right. _Vultures_.” He doesn’t move away, though, just stays frozen and pressed up against Bitty’s body.

“Shh,” Jack adds, a moment later, which is totally unnecessary. Bitty presses his face into Jack’s neck.

“ _I’m not_ _talking_ ,” he mutters, trying to stifle his giggles.

Jack gives him a severe look, like he wasn’t the one who started the talking. After a moment, the voices pass by and Jack leans down, probably to continue their earlier kissing, but Bitty starts laughing helplessly, struck with a truly ridiculous thought.

Jack raises his eyebrows in question, and Bitty says, “We’re hiding in the closet!”

This doesn’t make Jack laugh the way Bitty intended it to. His brows furrow. He looks _sad._

“Oh, Jack,” Bitty says. “I was just making a joke. You know I get it.”

Jack is frowning. “It’s not forever,” he says. “I’m going to come out.”

“It’s okay.” Bitty sighs. He doesn’t feel like talking about this. “It doesn’t matter. Our friends know. Our parents know. The rest of it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Jack says. “And it’s… it’s not going to be forever, okay?”

He’s so earnest, his eyes a startling, clear blue. It makes Bitty’s heart ache.

“I know,” he says, softly. “I know, Jack. I just want you to be ready.”

“I'm going to be ready,” Jack says. He runs his fingers along Bitty’s cheek. “Okay? I’m going to be ready soon.”

“Okay,” Bitty says. “Okay. I love you.”

They stay in the closet a while longer, quiet, wrapped around each other. Bitty lays his head against Jack’s chest and stays inside the circle of his arms. Jack’s heartbeat is a calming, steady rhythm against his ear.

 

 

 

05.

Bitty’s in the pantry and he’s trying not to lose his shit, but he can’t find his good chocolate and it’s driving him crazy _._ He doesn’t have time for this; the press release is coming out in less than six hours. He has a schedule to follow. Delays are not good. The coffeecake crumble muffins are already in the oven, but there’s still a lot to do. He has ten minutes to finish the apple muffin batter so that it’s ready to go in the oven when the coffeecake crumble comes out. Right now the grated apple-egg-sugar mixture is sitting on the counter, flavors melding together, but it’ll need Bitty’s attention soon.

These ten minutes were _supposed_ to be devoted to starting the vegan orange chocolate muffin batter. He should be zesting an orange into some melted chocolate—that’s also going to need to sit for a while before it’s ready—except he can’t do that if he can’t find the fucking Valrhona chocolate _._ There should be two bags of chocolate discs (dark and milk), and a container of good cocoa powder in the pantry. He had Jack put it away in here yesterday.

Bitty probably doesn’t need to be making six different kinds of muffins. Originally, he was just going to make his famous double chocolate muffins. He figured it was the least he could do, because the Falconers PR team was about to have a whole lot of shit on their hands. He wanted everyone to be in a good mood, and Bitty doesn’t know a better way to ensure that than homemade baked goods. Muffins are perfect—easy to eat (pie was too messy; you needed forks and plates), and not so sweet they might cause a sugar crash (Bitty needed everyone to be _alert_ ).

When Jack went in to finalize the statement two days ago, Bitty tagged along to ask around and see if there were any food allergies or dietary restrictions he needed to be aware of. Only then he found out that two members of the PR team were vegan, one was gluten-free, and one girl sheepishly admitted that she didn’t actually like chocolate very much. That was fine, because Bitty couldn’t make his famous double chocolate muffins vegan _and_ gluten-free, anyway—they just wouldn’t be the same—so he was already committed to second batch at the very least. He could do no chocolate, easy. There was that gluten free banana walnut muffin recipe he wanted to try, and there were also those vegan orange chocolate muffins that he’d made last month which _were_ really good. Also, one of the interns had perked up immediately at the mention of muffins and said, “Oh, blueberry is my favorite! But, uhm, I’m sure whatever you make will be great,” and how could Bitty _not_ make blueberry muffins after hearing that? So it’s actually pretty understandable, if you think about it, that Bitty ends up planning to make six different kinds of muffins for ten people.

It’s fine, though. Bitty’s fine. He planned everything out; he has time to make all six batches and then drive them over to the PR office before the release comes out. He and Jack have been talking about this for weeks, and Bitty’s really, really happy that Jack’s coming out. It’s time, and they’re ready. It’s going to be such a relief not to hide anymore. Bitty just needs everything to go well tonight.

And in order for everything to go well, _he needs his fucking chocolate._

Okay, so he’s losing his shit a little. It’s fine.

“ _Where’s the Valrhona_?” Bitty bellows. He’s _sure_ he saw it yesterday, but it’s not fucking _anywhere._

“The who?” Jack calls, from somewhere entirely too far away. He needs to be _in here_ helping Bitty look. Jack probably thinks he’s being cute, asking “the who?” like he doesn’t know what Bitty’s talking about. Bitty can’t handle this right now.

“The chocolate!” Bitty yells. “The fancy fucking chocolate!”

Bitty’s explained the superiority of Valrhona chocolate about a hundred times before. Jack needs to get in here and help instead of being useless doing whatever it is he’s doing _._ Jack’s the reason Bitty’s making all these muffins anyway. It’s for Jack’s sake that Bitty needs everything to go well. The least he could do is fucking take this seriously. It’s important. They need the PR people to be _happy._

“ _Fuck_!” Bitty slams his hand against the wall. He needs this to go well. He needs the Valrhona _._

Jack appears in the doorway to the pantry a second later. He looks a little concerned, but also totally calm. Which is good. It’s not like Bitty wants Jack to be freaking out right now. Jack’s been plenty nervous already. He threw up the night he told Georgia he wanted to come out, weeks ago now, and he was pale and shaking before they recorded the interview yesterday. Bitty’s glad for Jack’s eerie calm ever since he got back from the interview (“It’s done. I can’t do anything else about it now. And I’m excited to kiss you in public. Maybe tomorrow. We can go out to dinner.”), but it’s also kind of unnerving.

“Um,” Jack says, looking down at Bitty.

“It’s not anywhere!” Bitty knocks over an unopened box of cereal as he paws through the middle shelf. There’s all kinds of crap there, but no chocolate. It’s ridiculous. Bitty knows it’s in here. He’s been looking for at least seven minutes by now, which means the apple muffin batter will need his attention in three, and the timer for the vegan coffeecake crumble muffins is going to go off any minute now, and Bitty’s not ready for this. He’s going to have to use regular cocoa powder for the muffins, and then they won’t be nearly as good, and then the PR people won’t understand how very, very badly Bitty needs for all of this to go well, and then—

Jack’s arms come out nowhere, wrapping around Bitty from behind. Jack rests his chin on the top of Bitty’s head.

“Breathe,” Jack says.

Bitty lets out a shaky sigh, leaning back into the warm solid weight behind him. Jack holds on.

“I’m just worried,” Bitty says.

“I know.” Jack kisses the top of his head. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah,” Bitty says. “I know. You’re right.”

He closes his eyes. Tries consciously to relax his shoulders, his hands. He listens to Jack’s breathing, tries to match it.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Here’s the chocolate. It’s just on the high shelf.”

He unwraps his arms from around Bitty and leans up to grab both bags of chocolate _féves_ and the tub of Valrhona cocoa powder from the top shelf.

“I guess you couldn’t see it,” Jack says, handing the chocolate to Bitty. “Because you’re so tiny.”

“Godammit, Jack,” Bitty says, exasperated, turning around to glare at him. Jack’s grinning. Bitty should have seen it coming. He never sees it coming. He always assumes that he is safe from height-related chirps around _his own boyfriend_ , but then again, betrayal always comes from the people you trust.

Bitty’s working up to a really good fit of righteous indignation when Jack says, “I love you.”

A full-body tingle of happiness swoops through Bitty. Godammit. Every time.

“You can’t keep doing that,” Bitty says. He’s mad. He _is_ mad. The warmth rushing through him right now—definitely anger. “You can’t keep using that to get out of things.”

Jack smiles serenely. He’s just _waiting._

“It’s going to stop working eventually,” Bitty says. It is. Eventually, he’ll get tired of hearing Jack say that. Or at least he’ll get used to it. Probably.

Jack’s grin widens.

Bitty presses his lips together. Jack looks so cute when he smiles like that. His eyes are very blue, crinkled at the corners. It’s the smile he smiles for Bitty and hardly anything else.

Godammit.

“Loveyoutoo,” Bitty says, with the biggest scowl he can muster. “But I’m still annoyed with you!”

“Uh huh,” Jack agrees, pleasantly. The little shit.

Bitty hip checks him out of the way and bustles into the kitchen. He has muffins to bake. He has _six kinds_ of muffins to bake. He doesn’t have time for Jack’s antics.

“I’m going to watch you bake,” Jack says, sliding into a stool on the other side of the island.

“I don’t care what you do,” Bitty says, grumpily, starting to fold the apple mixture into his pre-measured bowl of dry ingredients. When he looks up a minute later, Jack is just sitting there, still smiling at him, chin in his hand. Bitty rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling back a little as he does it.

He does feel calmer, actually. Being annoyed with Jack is a normal sort of distraction. When the timer goes off, Bitty just slides the finished muffins out and the apple muffins in. He’s ready. He can do this.

He pauses.

“Thanks.” Bitty presses his hands flat against the countertop. It's cool beneath his palms. Jack knows what he's being thanked for; it’s obvious now that was his intention with the chirping. “Can you chop up the chocolate for me while I zest this orange? Just put the chocolate into the double boiler when you’re done.”

“Yes, dear,” Jack says amicably, standing up. He looks over at the tray of muffins Bitty’s just taken out of the oven. “Hey, can I—”

“No,” Bitty says automatically, because they're for the PR people. Then he sighs. “When they’ve cooled down a little, sure. But you’ll like the apple muffins best, you should really wait for one of those.”

“Okay,” Jack says, settling in next to Bitty at the counter. “How much chocolate am I chopping up?”

“Eight ounces of the dark chocolate,” Bitty says. He’s already moving onto the next bullet point in his mental checklist. At this point, Jack helps out in the kitchen pretty regularly, and he can be relied on to follow Bitty’s directions. He asked a lot of questions at first, but Bitty never minded because he always remembered the answers.

Usually Bitty doesn’t like to have help when baking—he just ends up worrying over whatever the other person’s doing, and it’s not actually easier than doing it himself—but it’s different with Jack. Bitty trusts him.

-

A couple hours later, when Bitty’s got all the muffins arranged in the basket, Jack drives them to the Falconers office. They’re actually a couple minutes ahead of Bitty’s schedule.

“You ready?” Jack asks, once he’s parked the car.

“That’s my line,” Bitty complains, but he smiles anyway, adding, “Yeah, Jack. I am.”

He is.

Jack puts his hand on Bitty’s lower back as they walk into the building. It does more to convince Bitty that everything is going to be okay than all the muffins in the world ever could.

The muffins can’t hurt, though.

 

 

 

 

 

 

+

The press release comes out. It’s good.

There’s a ton of support—as they all expected—and Jack’s interview goes viral. The interview is one of the best Jack’s ever done: he’s relaxed, genuine, perfectly _Jack_ , all shy charm and a little blush when he mentions his _boyfriend_. Bitty’s so proud of him. He knows how nervous Jack had been going into it.

He watches the video about sixteen times, and only cries the first five or six times he watches it. Honestly, it’s _wonderful._ Bitty can’t believe how happy he is.

There’s some shit, too, but Bitty and Jack both agreed they wouldn’t read it, so they don’t. The PR team can handle all of that. It’s what they’re there for.

Jack’s just about as elated as Bitty is. Basically the whole team texts him their congratulations, and Bitty walks in to Jack and Shitty on Skype together the day after the press release. Shitty is sobbing, and Jack’s a little teary-eyed himself. Bitty’s about to back out of the room to give them some space when Jack reaches out for him, and Bitty lets himself get tugged in front of the camera.

A minute later, Bitty's crying too, as Shitty's saying, “I’m just so happy! Fuck! I was so happy when you _first_ got together, and now this? And you’re still so in love, it’s fucking _disgusting_ , I can’t handle it, I love you guys so much—”

Jack and Bitty end up not going out to dinner that night, like Jack had planned. They’re both too emotional, and Bitty’s afraid he’ll accidentally start crying in public and someone will take a picture and immortalize it forever. That’s not the first impression Bitty wants to make on the world. They order takeout instead.

But a couple days later, when things have settled down a little, Jack says, “Let’s go for a walk. It’s pretty out.”

It’s kind of chilly, in Bitty’s opinion, but it is sunny and clear so Jack isn’t completely wrong. Bitty can wear a scarf.

It’s a good walk. They hold hands, since they can.

Later, they’re lying on the grass, Bitty’s head pillowed on Jack’s chest, when some kid starts snapping photos with his phone from a little ways away. Bitty props himself up with one arm, smiling and waving with big, exaggerated movements. Jack just lies there, snorting with laughter.

The kid freezes, probably embarrassed about being spotted. He doesn’t put his phone away, though. He actually takes a couple of steps closer and starts taking pictures again.

Jack lifts his head, making a little sound of displeasure in the back of his throat. Bitty agrees; it’s kind of stopped being funny and moved right on into annoying.

“Okay, leave us alone now!” Bitty yells. “I’m trying to have a date with my boyfriend!”

The kid freezes again, radiating mortification from fifteen feet away. He shoves his phone in his pocket and almost runs away in the other direction. Perfect.

Bitty puts his head back down on Jack’s chest, stares up at the clear blue sky. It doesn’t matter that someone took pictures of them. Jack is out: Bitty is officially, publicly his boyfriend.

The sky looks huge and wide open. Bitty reaches up to hold Jack’s hand.

Let the whole word see, for all he cares.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [jacksbits](http://jacksbits.tumblr.com). Come say hi!


End file.
